


What Girls Are Made Of

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Natasha Romanov, Gen, Natasha-centric, POV Natasha Romanov, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4134261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Nat, what are you doing?"</em>
</p><p>Or, five times Natasha used unconventional means of flying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Girls Are Made Of

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [KristinaDavidovna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KristinaDavidovna) for location research and beta.

(art by [Cat Rocketship](http://catrocketship.tumblr.com/))

1.

This, Natasha thinks, would not have been her choice for an ideal first trip to China. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D. for the past six months means she’s had the pleasure of viewing their recruitment presentations, knows they like to boast of the exotic locales agents visit on assignment. It’s not like she was ever particularly swayed by that, or like she ever really had the option to _volunteer_ herself as an agent, but still. There are surely better ways to experience a new country than getting killed on the first night in town.

This wasn’t even supposed to be an exciting assignment, by her usual standards. Get in, spend a couple nights observing the habits of a person of interest living in the high rise apartment building across from their current rooftop perch, and get back out with enough intel to form a more involved plan. She probably should have known better, though--probably should have known that S.H.I.E.L.D. missions don’t ever _stay_ boring for long. At least, not the ones Fury hand picks for her.

“Shit!” Clint hisses beside her as the access door behind them flies open and heavy footfalls signal the approach of several people.

Not civilians, Natasha guesses, though they’re still a few hundred yards off in the dark. Civilians don’t wear combat boots.

“Classy,” she tells Clint, setting down the scope she’s been holding and reaching for her sidearm. She doesn’t bother with the night vision goggles around her neck. There’s too much light pollution from the neighboring buildings and billboards; the goggles will only impede her acuity.

Clint already has his bow out, arrow nocked, and Natasha’s glad they’re on the same page here. The job’s supposed to be a strict no-contact protocol, but damned if she’s going to wait to get killed before acting. The first shot comes out of the gloom half a second later, and Natasha drops to her belly, counting on the fact that their assailants will probably be expecting to face people on their feet. Besides, the edge of the roof is a narrow few feet away, and she isn’t about to make it easy to simply throw her off.

Clint lets the arrow fly, and though Natasha still can’t quite make out their targets, she isn’t surprised to hear a grunt of pain followed by the sound of dead weight hitting the concrete of the roofing tiles. He doesn’t waste any time, drawing and releasing again immediately. This time there’s no reaction, and Natasha catches her breath. Another spray of bullets forces Clint to duck, but he’s back up again a second later, bow raised.

His third shot whistles by Natasha’s head, and a second later an explosion rips across the surface of the roof, the shockwave knocking the gun from her hand. It’s all she can do to close her eyes and try to find traction on the tiles that are shaking beneath her. The heat wave washes over her next, so sudden that it steals the breath from her lungs, stings the skin of her face and hands.

“Clint,” she gasps, choking on the smoke. Her eyes tear as she struggles to open them and she blinks desperately, though she feels a small measure of relief when he stirs beside her.

“Here,” he groans, sitting up gingerly. “Still alive. Unfortunately.”

Natasha shoots him a look she’s pretty sure he can’t see.

Stretching out in front of them, the roof has become a gaping chasm of wrecked concrete, debris still smoldering as it falls into the building. Inside, there’s a fire alarm blaring, though it sounds deceptively muffled, telling her that the force of the blast has affected her hearing. They don’t have long to contemplate the damage, though -- local authorities will surely have been alerted, probably already en route to this building.

“Was that one of yours?” asks Natasha, gesturing to his quiver.

“Hell no,” says Clint, managing to look slightly offended despite everything. “One of the grunts must’ve had explosives. Maybe I hit those.”

“We have to get out of here,” she tells him, getting to her feet a little shakily.

He nods, surveying the scene. “Well we’re not getting back to the stairway door. And I don’t love the idea of dropping down into the building. You?”

She shakes her head. “You have a better idea?”

Clint winces as some of the debris ignites, flaring into a robust fire. “Yes.” He picks out an arrow before swinging his quiver around so it’s secured to his chest. “Grappling hook arrow. Take a swing over to the next building, then lower ourselves down.”

“They’ll see us,” says Natasha, frowning at him. “Everyone in the building will see us.”

Clint shrugs and holds out an arm, gesturing for her to come hold onto him. “They’re paying for the view, right?”

She rolls her eyes but does as he’s indicated, using his shoulders to leverage herself up onto his back, her arms around his neck and her legs hugging his waist.

“You know,” he says blithely, “this isn’t really what I tend to picture when I think of a hot girl riding me.”

Natasha groans, deciding that if his sense of humor gets them arrested, she’ll kill him herself. “Just _go_.”

“Hold on!” says Clint, and she doesn’t have a chance to respond, the breath knocked out of her lungs as he takes a running start.

He moves so quickly and so smoothly that she misses the moment when he takes the shot, isn’t aware of anything but the wind rushing by in her ears, the dizzying sensation of falling. It’s exhilarating as much as it is terrifying, and she has just long enough to think that they really are going to die before the slack is gone and the line catches, Clint’s shoulder smacking a darkened window hard enough to crack the glass. His body takes most of the impact, but there are a few shards trying to bite into her arms, making her grateful for the thick fabric of her suit.

“You okay?” she asks, wondering suddenly whether her throat feels raw from the smoke or if she’s just been screaming without realizing it.

“Sure,” he says, over his shoulder, adjusting the line to take them to the ground. “Just pretty sure my ears are gonna be ringing for a week.”

 

2.

The impact comes out of nowhere. One moment Natasha has the jet cruising along in stealth mode, nothing but clear skies and clean readouts. The next, a shockwave rocks through the cockpit, hard enough that she’s thrown backward, sees stars as the back of her head slams into the pilot’s seat.

“Son of a bitch!” comes Steve’s voice from behind her, followed by the sound of him fighting his way out of his safety restraints and getting to his feet.

Half a dozen alarms are already screaming shrilly at Natasha as she fights a wave of dizziness to right herself in her chair, grabbing for the controls. The jet is already listing steeply to the right--bad enough that she can tell they’re rapidly losing altitude even as her instincts struggle to regain some semblance of equilibrium. At first she thinks the lack of response from the jet might be a trick of her own perception, but that hope is dashed when she hears the too-familiar sound of the metal hull groaning. There’s no denying that the plane’s in the process of taking a nose dive straight into the Mediterranean Sea.

Natasha unbuckles her own harness, holding onto the back of the seat as the floor shifts beneath her feet. The view when she turns sends her heart into her throat, an uncharacteristic wave of panic working its icy way up the back of her throat. She’s been in a few emergency evac situations and lived to tell the tale, but never in a jet that’s had its back end blown clean off.

“We’re leaking fuel,” says Steve, and Natasha doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look quite so alarmed. “This thing could blow at any minute.”

“‘chutes?” she asks, though deep down she knows the question’s a waste of precious time.

He shakes his head. “Gone. Guess that’s the problem with keeping all the supplies in the back.”

“Plan?” asks Natasha, the look in his eyes telling her that he most definitely has one.

Steve jumps back as what’s left of the fuselage on his right bursts into flame. “Get on my back. Now.”

“Deja vu,” says Natasha, knowing that he’ll have no idea what she means, but feeling strangely comforted all the same. She crosses the tilting jet as quickly as she can, adopts the position she’d normally use to take down a mark twice her size--arms encircling his neck, legs locked around his waist.

“Hang on!” says Steve, and doesn’t give her any more warning.

He takes off at a sprint, and then it’s all free-fall, the wind whipping her hair into her eyes. It’s quiet up here, and cold. For a moment time seems to stretch out, nothing but the kiss of clouds against her skin and the blissful rush of being utterly out of control, unable to do a single thing to change their fate.

When it comes, breaking the surface of the ocean feels like a second shock wave. Natasha loses her grip, is momentarily pulled beneath the cool blanket of the water. She comes up coughing, unsure whether she’s choking on salt water or smoke. Suddenly she’s very glad for the thermal protection her suit will afford her, and that the fabric won’t become too bogged down in the water.

“Nat?” Steve calls, and she locates him a few feet off, at the same time she registers that the water around them is full of debris from the jet. The adrenaline is still singing through her veins, the surprise of being alive at all leaving her positively euphoric.

“Here!” she answers, swimming toward him.

“You okay?” he asks, and the concern on his face is almost painful.

“Sure,” says Natasha, shrugging as nonchalantly as she can manage in the water. “That was new and exciting.”

He rolls his eyes. “Tracker should still be working. S.H.I.E.L.D.’ll get people out here soon. Good news is, I’m pretty sure you can use me as a raft in the meantime if you want.”

 

3.

Bilgesnipe, it turns out, are not exclusively found on Asgard. Not after the Convergence, anyway. Right now, in fact, one has decided to go sightseeing in the middle of downtown London.

The thing is every bit as ugly as Thor’s stories have led her to believe, and then some. Which is actually pretty impressive, if Natasha takes the time to think about it. She’s always assumed there was a healthy amount of exaggeration involved.

But this creature is downright vile, nothing like a benevolent dinosaur from a children’s cartoon, or the majestic depiction of dragons she’s seen over and over again. The bilgesnipe is green and four-legged, covered in thick scales that are making her bullets ricochet dangerously. Even down on all fours, it’s as big as a house, and it smells like a sewer.

“Dammit!” comes Clint’s voice over the comms, as one of his explosive arrows bounces off the monster’s scales like a toy bottle rocket. He’s perched atop one of the buildings nearby, she knows, several stories up. But even that vantage point isn’t giving him the advantage they need.

Irritated, the creature turns and charges straight at Natasha’s position on the street. She dodges quickly, taking cover behind a parked SUV, though she knows it isn’t exactly safety. She’s already watched this thing skewer a smaller sedan on its horns and throw the vehicle like it’s light as a feather.

“Thor,” she whispers, hoping the comms will magnify her voice enough to be heard without drawing too much focus to her position. It isn’t like the bilgesnipe is really paying attention to the subtleties of this situation, but she’d like to avoid becoming its next target either way.

Thor apparently isn’t listening, though--instead he’s chosen this moment to plant himself directly in the bilgesnipe’s path. Natasha watches as he lifts his hammer to the sky, lets the lightning build on its surface for a few seconds before directing the electricity straight at the creature’s head.

For a moment, she thinks that this will be it, will put an end to this particular fight and allow them to move on with the containment operation they’ve all been called here to man. The bilgesnipe isn’t the only weird thing that’s ended up on Earth in the aftermath of the Convergence. It just happens to be the one doing the most damage at the moment.

When the lightning fades, the bilgesnipe is still standing, its scales practically untouched, save for the fact that they’re smoking a bit. It blinks twice at Thor, then throws its head back and roars loud enough to unleash a small cloud of sour breath all over the street.

“You want a fight?” Thor asks the beast, as if it can understand him.

Then again, for all Natasha knows, maybe it can.

“That a good idea?” Clint asks.

“I’ll show you a fight!” Thor challenges, winding up and hurling the hammer in the bilgesnipe’s direction.

The thing doesn’t run, doesn’t even make an attempt to dodge. Instead it paws the ground, claws making huge scratch marks in the asphalt, and lowers its head. Mjolnir arcs high into the air, coming in for what looks to be a vicious hit. But then it collides with the bilgesnipe’s horns, and bounces off harmlessly, as if it were nothing more than a prop. Thor mumbles an obscenity, but it’s half drowned out by the creature’s irritated grunt.

“Thor!” says Natasha, chancing giving up her cover to stand at the edge of the street and get his attention. “What’s going on here? We can’t back you up if you don’t tell us what to do.”

“There’s magic in the horns and the scales,” says Thor, keeping his back to her as he tracks the beast. “Our only chance is to land a blow to the mouth, where the enchantment is weaker.”

“So,” comes Clint’s voice, sounding tinny and far away in Natasha’s ear, “you make it mad enough to open up and I’ll aim down the hatch.”

“No,” says Natasha, because as much as she trusts Clint’s aim, he’s several hundred yards away and she’s just seen this thing laugh in the face of a demi-god’s attack. “I have a better idea.”

“What’s that?” asks Thor, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Nat,” Clint begins, but she ignores him.

“Throw the hammer again,” says Natasha. “Just like you did before, but this time, on my mark.”

“Nat, don’t,” Clint tries again, his tone telling her that he knows exactly what she’s planning to do.

Thor just nods, either accustomed to crazier requests from his comrades or simply tired enough of this monster’s stink to try any new approaches.

“Three,” says Natasha, taking a few paces closer to Thor and hoping that the creature won’t choose now to move and blow this plan all to hell. She takes a grenade from her belt, carefully keeping it wrapped in her left hand. “Two. Now!”

Thor gives Mjolnir two quick spins, then releases it into the air. Natasha breaks into a sprint as the handle leaves his fingers, throwing all her energy into the pace. Pushing off the ground with both feet, she reaches up with her free hand, grabbing onto the leather at the hammer’s base as it flies past her head. She knows she won’t be able to control it, is counting on riding its momentum, but the power of the pull is still surprising, knocking the breath out of her as she’s swept off her feet. It takes all her strength and concentration to keep her hold, to focus on the creature below her and not the magic pulsing through Mjolnir. For a split second, she thinks she can almost feel a crackle of its lightning.

But then they’ve arrived, the hammer beginning to arc downward again over the beast’s head. Natasha lets go and hopes to hell that she’s calculated this correctly, that the bilgesnipe moves the same way it did before. She lands on the back of its neck just as Mjolnir slams into the horns, gets her thighs around the bands of scaly solid muscle and tries to ignore the slime she can feel even through the fabric of her tac suit. The creature does exactly what she’s hoped it would, throwing its head back to roar as soon as the hammer bounces off of its horns again.

Natasha chooses that moment to attack, leaning forward and pressing in the grenade’s activation pin, getting her hand as close to the bilgesnipe’s mouth as she dares so she can toss the little cylinder down its throat. She jumps off without waiting to see whether her aim’s been successful, hits the ground in a roll and just keeps moving. The grenade detonates a second later, the shockwave hot against Natasha’s back as it presses her into the pavement.

It isn’t until she’s managed to get her breath and open her eyes that she realizes she’s covered in a putrid mass of bilgesnipe scales and entrails, along with the rest of the city block. The monster’s been reduced to a gargantuan heap of smoking meat, which smells so repulsive that she’s tempted to simply turn and vomit.

“Nat!” comes Clint’s voice, frantic over the comms, though it sounds artificially muffled in the aftermath of the explosion. “Nat, do you copy? You okay?”

“Calm down, I’m fine,” says Natasha, looking up again to find Thor standing over her, offering a hand. She allows him to help her to her feet, just this once. “But I think I’ll be needing roughly a dozen showers. In bleach.”

Thor just chuckles. “A valiant sacrifice.”

 

4.

When they’d first gotten the intel, Natasha had harbored the thought that Hydra could have chosen worse places than Dubai for one of its bases. The majority of their raids so far have been out of the way, secure by means of being set up in the middle of nowhere. When they’d first gotten the intel, she’d actually thought this might make for a nice change of pace.

She’s currently rethinking all of that, though. Because Dubai has skyscrapers, and this time their intel’s led them straight to one in the heart of the city. Not exactly the sort of place the Avengers can just smash their way into. At least, not if they want to avoid this mission getting plastered all over primetime international news.

Which is how she’s ended up here, preparing to leave the stealth-cloaked hatch of the Quinjet with Tony carrying her like a sack of potatoes. It’s the fastest way to get her into the 44th floor server room to scan the base for any mention of Loki’s scepter without attracting too much attention.

“Ready?” asks Tony, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“You’re only going to use one hand?” asks Natasha, though she isn’t really all _that_ concerned about being dropped. It’s just that she isn’t accustomed from seeing the world from this high up when it isn’t behind the glass window of a jet.

“Need the other one to cut the glass,” he replies, engaging the jets in his suit and taking off without any more warning. She sucks in a surprised breath, and hopes he hasn’t heard it.

“What is it with you boys and jumping the gun?” she asks, trying not to look down.

She isn’t sure what it is that makes this maneuver unnerving when she’s done much crazier things before without a second thought. Something about the control of it, the deliberately gentle way Tony’s carrying her across the open space that gives her too much time to think about how very far away the ground is, how undignified a death it would be.

“Us boys?” Natasha can practically hear the quirk of Tony’s eyebrow in his tone. “This a pattern I should know more about?”

“No,” she tells him stubbornly. They’ve reached the window now, and getting inside of the building before someone notices their presence and attacks is suddenly all she cares about. “Just cut the glass already.”

“Pushy,” says Tony, lifting the palm of his suit to the window and cutting out a large section with a focused laser beam. He punches the loose circle inward, letting it smash to the floor.

“Nice,” Natasha chides. “Thought we trying _not_ to announce our presence here.”

Tony sighs, and moves so that she can plant her feet on the sill, then step solidly into the room itself, gun drawn. “I scanned the place. No life-forms in this half the floor. But watch your back.”

“Clint,” Natasha says into her comms, ignoring Tony, “standby for data transfer.”

“And make a note, Bruce,” says Tony, “that Agent Romanoff would like us to move the flying motorcycle to the top of our project list.”

 

5.

“Cap?” Natasha calls into her comm. When she’s met with nothing but static, she pulls the unit from her ear, adjusts the frequency and tries again. “Thor? Anybody copy?”

The comm line is dead, no matter how she tries to adjust it. Natasha sighs, cursing inwardly. She’s been afraid of this. It had seemed far too easy, finding Hydra out here, deep in the woods in Latvia, in a damned castle, of all things. Scans from the Quinjet had suggested minimal defenses, but she thinks they should have known better than to trust appearances. The place is rigged with some type of electromagnetic pulse that’s fried most of their weapons, the comms, and Tony’s armor. The last Natasha saw of her teammates, Steve and Thor had been trying to draw most of the Hydra fire away from Tony, who was attempting to reboot his suit with Clint covering his back.

It’s her job to get inside now, and find some way to shut down the EMP before it takes out the Quinjet as well. Simple enough, except the problem with castles is that they’re surrounded by walls. This one is electrified to boot, and even though she knows her gloves will protect her hands, she’s willing to bet that too much contact will still get her insides fried. Which means she’s dead in the water until backup arrives or she thinks of another solution.

She’s contemplating trying to vault over the wall with the help of a nearby fallen tree branch when the ground begins to shake with the vibrations of familiar heavy footfalls. Natasha turns just in time to see the Hulk emerging from the tree cover, a trail of downed vegetation in his wake.

She smiles. “Hi. About time reinforcements showed up. We need to get inside that wall, there’s some kind of EMP being generated. I need to shut it down.”

Hulk nods once, posturing as if to charge at the offending wall, but Natasha holds up a hand.

“Wait. Don’t. It’s electrified.” She isn’t really sure how much that would actually matter to the Hulk, but she doesn’t want now to be when they find out.

He gives her an incredulous look, but does as she says, pulling back. Natasha considers for a moment, tries to decide whether the plan that’s coming together in the back of her mind is setting a new bar for crazy. She can’t see the ground on the other side of the wall, but by her calculations, there’s a good sized courtyard between it and the castle’s entry. If there are guards here, they haven’t revealed themselves yet, and they’ll probably be too thrown by the Hulk to react the way they otherwise might. It’s an insane rationalization, she knows, but in the end she decides it’s worth the risk.

“Hulk,” she says finally, making sure she has his attention. “I’m going to need you to give me some wings.”

They’ve never done this particular maneuver before, but he gets the point, apparently, because he lowers one massive hand to the ground, palm-up, and looks at her expectantly.

Natasha takes a breath, steels herself, and climbs on. She gives Hulk a little nod, and he swings his hand upward in a powerful throw. Natasha rides the momentum up and over the wall, doesn’t let failure enter her mind as an option. She tucks her legs tight to her chest, turns over in a neat flip, then rolls as the ground comes up to meet her, hard and fast. Her knees are going to be bruised to hell tomorrow, but for the moment the courtyard is empty, and she’s alive.

“Thanks!” she calls over her shoulder to Hulk, and takes off in search of the castle’s generators.

 

+1

“Consider this a parting gift,” says Tony, presenting her with a pair of small black cylinders.

“Is it going to explode?” she asks, because he’s insisted on having this meeting in the middle of the green behind the new Avengers facility, claiming she’ll need to be outside to fully appreciate his creation. She still isn’t sure she wants to trust any of his inventions, after the past few months. Especially not when he’s being secretive like this.

“Probably not,” he answers glibly, then grins. “No, it won’t. Put it on.” He gestures for her to clip the things to her belt, at her hips, and suddenly Natasha sees that they’re designed to attach that way.

She does as instructed, sucking in a breath, then blowing it out again when nothing happens. She looks up at him expectantly.

“There’s a button on the top of the one on the left,” says Tony, pointing again. “They’ll adapt to your body movements, once they’re on, but you have to hit the activation switch first.”

“What _are_ they?” asks Natasha, still eyeing him warily.

“Just hit the switch and you’ll see,” Tony insists. “Come on, don’t ruin my dramatic timing here.”

She sighs, vows to kill him very painfully if this goes badly, and presses the button. The first thing she feels is the rush of hot air coming off the little devices as they hum to life. Then, in the next instant, her feet leave the ground and her stomach drops as she realizes she’s suddenly suspended ten feet in the air, on nothing but the energy of Tony’s gift. Jet packs, she realizes now. Jet packs designed specifically for her utility belt.

“Tony!” she calls down to him, half chastisement and half elation as she lets the reality of this wash over her. Natasha kicks one leg out experimentally, realizes that she can move with ease, is fully in control this time, even as the familiar euphoria of leaving the ground kicks in.

“You’re welcome,” says Tony, looking as smug as she’s ever seen him. “‘bout time you got some wings of your own. Besides, you’ll need them to keep up with the new team. I hear all of them can fly.”

“This is great,” says Natasha. “Really. But--How do I get back down?”

“Same switch.” He waits until she’s pressed the button again, the jet packs powering down slowly to bring her smoothly back to earth.

She takes a step toward him, finds his hand and squeezes it. “Thank you,” she tells him sincerely. “Really.”

Tony grins and nods once. “Now go kick some flying ass.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and smiles back. “Sounds like fun.”


End file.
